"No--no! I love you!" cried Cyril. He hardly knew what he was saying; the words seemed to have leaped to his lips. She regarded him for a second in silence evidently only partially convinced. Cyril felt horribly guilty. He had momentarily forgotten his wife, and although he tried to convince himself that he had spoken the truth and that it was not she who was keeping them apart, yet he had to acknowledge that if he had been free, he would certainly have behaved very differently towards Anita. So in a sense he had lied to her and as he realised this, his eyes sank before hers. She did not fail to note his embarrassment and pressed her point inexorably. "Swear that there is no other woman who has a claim on you and I will believe you." He could not lie to her in cold blood. Yet to tell her the truth was also out of the question, he said to himself. While he still hesitated, she continued more vehemently. "I don't ask you to tell me anything of your past or my past, if you had rather not do so. One thing, however, I must and will know--who is this woman and what are her pretensions?" "I--I cannot tell you," he said at last. "I only wish I could. Some day, I promise you, you shall know everything, but now it is impossible. But this much I will say--I love you as I have never loved any one in my whole life." She trembled from head to foot and half closed her eyes. For a moment neither spoke. Cyril felt that this very silence established a communion between them, more complete, more intense than any words could have done. But as he gazed at the small, drooping figure, he felt that his self-control was deserting him completely. He almost reeled with the violence of his emotion. "I can't stand it another moment," he said to himself. "I must go before--" He did not finish the sentence but clenched his hands till the knuckles showed white through the skin. He rose to his feet. "I can't stay!" he exclaimed aloud. "Forgive me, Anita. I can't tell you what I feel. Good-bye!" He murmured incoherently and seizing her hands, he pressed them for an instant against his lips, then dropping them abruptly, he fled from the room. Cyril in his excitement had not noticed that he had called Anita by her name nor did he perceive the start she gave when she heard it. After the door had clicked behind him, she sat as if turned to stone, white to her very lips. Slowly, as if with an effort, her lips moved. "Anita?" she whispered to herself. "Anita?" she repeated over and over again as if she were trying to learn a difficult lesson. Suddenly a great light broke over her face. "I am Anita Wilmersley!" she cried aloud. But the tension had been too great; with a little gasp she sank fainting to the floor. CHAPTER XIX AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR